Water, Water Everywhere

I remember when I used to be a free range water drinker, able to roam where ever I liked with the thought in the back of my young mind that no matter where I end up a sip of water was never far away.

I could turn on a tap and fill up a glass, saddle up to a drinking fountain, or on hot summer days there was nothing more satisfying then sticking your face in the path of a garden hose and opening wide.

Oh to be a free range water drinker, had it not been so natural it would've felt like the sweet life.

And then came bottled water. Well technically I wasn't there for the birth of bottled water, that credit goes to the Roman Empire, but they lacked polyethylene terephtalate, or recyclable plastic as those of us who didn't spend a small fortune on diploma collecting call it.

Mineral water was already gaining fans but with the birth of polyethylene terephtalate suddenly we could choose between glacial, spring, well, or repackaged tap water.

At first it was a big joke, a punch line to jokes about Hollywood and the rich, but then slowly more and more of us started trading in the tap for the 24 pack, and suddenly we ceased to be free range becoming tied down to water coolers, fridges, and store shelves.

And now its hard to go back. The idea of raising garden hose to mouth on a warm summers day seems akin to a feast of roasted plague rats, bird flu marinated chickens, and a big juicy mad cow steak. It's a miracle I survived my youth.

When I am at a persons house and they offer a glass of water, if their hand passes the fridge and heads towards the sink I feel the need to inquire, "tap water? Really? What am I to you? Some common dish? A utensil?"

Clearly my water domestication is well ingrained in me.

That brings me to last night.

I was a bit thirsty and in need of a nice cool glass of water. I headed for the kitchen, obviously the only place in a home one can find water suited for anything other then cleaning your body. Passing the metal basin in the middle of the counter where dishes queue for their turn in the dish washer I headed straight for the water cooler.

My cool water dispensing friend, usually full and bubbly, looked alarmingly empty. At first I hoped it was just an optical illusion, perhaps the light bouncing off the plastic container in a funny way. I studied the water cooler, circling it, looking at it from all sides, from above, below... it still seemed kind of empty.

Maybe there was some hidden reservoir within the base of the cooler, some oasis where water sits patiently as it waits for me to lap it up.

Cautiously I put my cup under the dispenser, pushed the button, and waited to be pleasantly surprised.

A trickle of water came out, just enough to evaporate by the time the cup hits my lips.

"Why are you doing this water cooler?" I asked.

It didn't seem to have an explanation.

Thirsty I didn't know what to do. I needed water, but where could I find it?

I considered running out to a 24-hour grocery store and buying some, but it was 2 AM and wearing pants no longer felt like an option. Would I have to go thirsty? Suffer through the night? It certainly felt like it.

Then I remembered my youth, I recalled the garden hoses, taps, and those public water dispensing things that seemed as quaint as a phone booth.

I eyed the metal dish basin suspiciously.

Could I? Should I? Would I wake up with a nasty case of the Norwalk?

I was pretty thirsty, a little tired, and just crazy enough to try.

I walked over to the sink and turned it on. It felt hotter then drinking water should.

Remembering how to operate the contraption it occurred to me I had to adjust the temperature.

"Hey Water Cooler, can you believe this sink? It doesn't even know how to cool a drink to proper drinking standard!"

Filling my glass I cautiously raised it to my mouth, fearful of the fact that no soda pop or chocolate bar corporation had certified my beverage.

I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers... almost lost my grip on the cup, uncrossed my fingers, and then had a sip.

And you know it wasn't bad.

But there isn't anyway I'd kick my bottled water habit and return to the ways of free range sipping.

I remember though when the concept of paying for a bottle of water seemed laughable. Those crazy Californians we thought.

You know what they are up to these days in LA? Designer Oxygen. The last time I was down there I stopped in at an Oxygen Bar where I could sample the latest scents like fresh cut grass or grapefruit for a dollar a minute. I hear they are even starting to sell the stuff in cans. I was going to make a joke here, but it just occurred to me you hear about those air borne virus' all the time, maybe Pepsi Brand Oxygen wouldn't be so bad...

The Art of (Advising) Discretion

I love when you’re watching television and they'll run a warning before the show, you know "Warning: This show contains violence and mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised."

Viewer discretion is advised... well thank you, thank you Mr. TV Network for advising me to use my discretion, a word that means to make my own choices. I'm really glad you are giving me permission to do this, you know, because I've been sitting on my couch mindlessly wishing you'd let me make my own decisions in life, so thank you for letting me know for the next hour that I can.

Of course what the network is saying is there might be something coming up that will scare you or jar your senses in some way, and that you may not want to watch.

This particular warning came last night as I sat down to watch one of those movies full of death at the hands of swords, guns, and the like. Basically the kind of overblown Hollywood popcorn flick that makes you scratch your head at who this is disturbing or offending. The only answer I can think of to this question is, "someone whose loved one was killed by an evil, eye patch wearing, reincarnated samurai." If this describes you, let me extend my heartfelt sympathy for your loss, I'm sure the one robotic armed samurai with the unexplainable Scottish accent will one day get what he deserves.

For the rest of us I find it hard to believe this violence demands our discretion, so let’s sit back and be mindless like Hollywood intended.

What's ironic is that certain commercials don't run with such a warning, like "The following commercial will make you feel really guilty for not adopting a village full of African orphans, viewer discretion is advised."

I was thinking about this late last night when I was innocently watching my movie on television, sitting at my home in Toronto when a Workplace Safety and Insurance Board of Ontario ad (WSIB) came on. For those of you from the area you’ll probably already know what I am talking about, for the rest of you I'll explain.

The Workplace Safety people have begun running ads whose messages are all "there are no accidents". They begin with a person doing a job; say a construction worker welding or a retail employee climbing a ladder to stock shelves. As they do their job they will look straight into the camera and tell us details of their life like "on the weekend I'll be getting married, but I won't be walking down the aisle, because..." and then they'll explain what’s wrong with the situation.

Then suddenly, in a flash of carnage, an accident (sorry WSIB I've got to say there is such a thing as accidents) will happen in gruesomely real detail.

Last night it was a chef who slipped on a wet floor while carrying a big pot of boiling water. She slams her head off the stove before colliding with the floor, the scolding water burning her limp body.

My mouth was still left gaping in shock (something I swore only happens in cartoons) as we faded back into the film of pyrotechnics and computerized guts, for which my discretion was to be used on.

My point is Hollywood's brand of violence and destruction doesn't really disturb me because for some reason I feel pretty secure genetically mutated (to cure cancer... somehow?) sharks won't chomp me to bits. Yet these workplace safety ads scare and disturb me to no end. It's the small accidents in life, those random things that are chilling.

In fact thanks to WSIB I have begun compiling a list of jobs I will never, ever do. I just cross my fingers they never run a commercial on improperly grounded microphone's killing comedians.

So run your redundant discretion warnings not before staged fights between rich actors, but before the truly freighting and upsetting. Why warn me about a car chase involving stunt men when you spring on me real life pictures of dead people in the news every day?

It reminds me of this show I was addicted to back in college called City Confidential. The concept of this true life documentary is that at the beginning of the show they'd introduce you to some big city or small town in America. They gave the history of the place, profiled the locals, some of the areas 'hot spots' like local bars or restaurants. They'd engulf you in this feeling of "what a great place," and then suddenly they'd rip it out from right under you.

See City Confidential is the story not only of the city, but a mystery that captivated the place. And like most captivating mysteries, Confidential's always revolved around murder.

What ultimately made the show was narrator Paul Winfield. His voice was one part wise old man simply telling you a story, and yet another part was laced with this chillingly playful tone that causes every turn of phrase to make your skin crawl.

Lines played on the location, "...and a mysterious death that had Newport caught up in a story with more twists and turns than the corridors of a seventy room seaside castle." Often still they'd simply use a play on words that'd be humourous if it weren't for the subject matter, and even when dealing with grizzly murder there'd always be a contradiction in the level of playfulness in the narration that’d be creepy and powerful. A lot is lost when it just sits before you on a page, but all the same, we cannot forget the ultimate example, "actually, the police had already ruled out Satan as a suspect."

They were real people, the exact same type who dot our lives, living in neighbourhoods eerily similar to ours, and their stories of events crashing down into murder were again, all too real.

And this is why when I walk in a forest late at night or a dark basement it’s not the themes from Psycho or Halloween I hear in my mind, it's Paul Winfield, narrating my every move.

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